


Kadan

by Dragonflies_and_Katydids



Series: Dawn [9]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, M/M, Sorry Not Sorry, an unfortunate lack of smut, and kind of depressing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-08
Updated: 2015-11-08
Packaged: 2018-04-30 12:36:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5164094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dragonflies_and_Katydids/pseuds/Dragonflies_and_Katydids
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dorian does a little research into that strange word Bull called him a few weeks ago.</p><p>Chapter 8.5 of <em>Exit Light</em>, which would be after Dorian's return from Redcliffe and his father, and before locating Samson. Just a reminder that nobody in the story was really in a very good place, mentally, at that point.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kadan

**Author's Note:**

  * For [KazeChama](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KazeChama/gifts).



> For Kaze, with deepest apologies. You should totally write your version. :)

It takes him by surprise, though it probably shouldn't. What did he think the word meant, after all? Certainly Bull's tone should have provided a hint, even if Dorian had been too drunk and too upset to really pay attention at the time.

He looks around the library now, the book still open in his hands, and marvels at how nothing has changed. Mother Giselle still looks at him with deep disapproval, Leliana's ravens still mutter to each other above his head, and Inquisition scouts still run up and down the stairs with no regard for the silence a library typically commands. The way he feels right now, there should be panic and screaming rather than order and routine, but he's the only one whose world has shifted.

How appropriate that it should break apart here, where Bull first murmured the word in his ear, Cullen hovering at the edges of his awareness. He doesn't want to remember that day, or the days that preceded it, the wrenching pain as if a new Breach had opened up in the center of his chest. And yet, curiosity has been his undoing once again, dragging him forward in search of a single word and its meaning.

In the weeks it's taken him to find it, he's entertained a number of theories about what it might mean. Bull calls him 'Vint, insult turned endearment, and so he had wondered if this word was something similar, a slur that isn't anymore. That had seemed the most likely explanation, though he had considered that it might be something embarrassing, the Qunlat equivalent of the ridiculous names people bestowed on animals and small children. He'd entertained other possibilities, too, a seemingly endless list that included everything except the correct answer.

A correct answer he has now, if only he knew what to do with it. He supposes the logical thing to do would be to find Bull, to accept or reject everything that word offers, but he doesn't know which he actually wants. Both options are equally terrifying, and in the end, he makes a third choice for himself so he can delay a real decision for a little longer.

The book in his hands is old, and so he closes it carefully, mindful of the aging vellum pages and the scarred wood that protects them. He sets it back on the shelf with equal care, noting absently that someone should repair the binding before the whole thing falls apart and has to be reordered and reassembled, page by painful page. No matter how careful he is, somehow things always end up in the wrong order when a book's binding gives way, and then there are hours spent piecing together beginnings and endings into something that makes sense once more.

He has a great deal of sympathy for that book right now.

No one looks twice at him as he descends to Skyhold's cellar. They will, of course, look more than twice if he walks back up the stairs carrying a dozen or so wine bottles, so he bypasses the wine in favor of something a little more potent, and portable.

Back in his room, he builds up the fire until the temperature is almost bearable, then sits in his chair, turning the bottle in his hands and watching the amber liquid splash against the inside of the glass, leaving behind curving trails like waves on a beach. His hands are steady as he pulls the cork free and pours himself a small glass; he is civilized, and he will not drink straight from the bottle like some common vagrant.

He sips slowly, savoring the burn and the sweetness and the lingering taste of smoke. When his glass is empty, he refills it, his hands as steady as ever.


End file.
